Max Frisch isn't an easy writer to classify. He's Swiss but in no sense a regionalist; he's neither comfortably traditional nor avant-garde in his style or styles. At his best, he's what we might call sharply contemporary, with an edge of nervous informality and a kind of rueful sagacity. He's been versatile to the point of sometimes seeming glib—his plays, written mostly in the 1950's and 60's, are especially notable in that respect—but he's also full of unexpected felicities; Max Frisch surprises.

His true achievements lie in a few novels, the relatively early "I'm Not Stiller" (a cult book for its admirers, of which I'm one), "Homo Faber" and the recent "Man in the Holocene," along with his several volumes of autobiographical "Sketchbooks." These volumes of personal reflection complement his best fiction, which, without being confessional in any flagrant sense, is characterized by a strain of...